


I Will Show You Fear

by arthureameslove



Series: Dark Bilbo Prompts [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Bilbo, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control, Possessed Bilbo, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring never wanted a bearer. The Ring wanted a host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Show You Fear

He heard footsteps sound behind him, mirroring the path he had taken out onto the balcony. "Are you happy now?" he heard Fili ask.

Thorin closed his eyes, trying to ignore the ache of the sight of the small figure on the ground, traveling further and further away. His hands clenched the banisters, gripping them as if he was trying to pull them back. Pull someone back.

"What's done is done. The traitor has dispersed and the kingdom will prosper," he said hollowly, automatically.

Fili choked out a broken sound, something like a scoff or a sob, then sighed, long and hard. "As you say, my king."

 

* * *

 

The years passed and the power of the Arkenstone grew dull, unimportant with each day. Thorin found the call of jewels displeasing—the jewels of his kingdom not nearly as distracting as they once were. Thorin would startle whenever he heard a familiar laugh, one that brought to his mind red-gold curls like autumn leaves and rosy, smiling cheeks, that had him racing down hallways only to find a stupefied dwarf or man, stuttering out apologies as his hope turned to despair.

He could not stand the sight of flowers anymore, however rare it was that they made their way into the mountain.

  
The kingdom's dealings with elves were made exceptionally difficult as Thorin found he was continuously distracted by their ears. He would always imagine a different face, a smiling, beautiful, familiar face looking back at him.

It was on the eve of the anniversary of the battle, three years later that he made his decision.

 

* * *

 

With Fili acting as Regent, he left Erebor, to the annoyance of many of his council excepting those who had been part of the company. He traveled alone—perhaps not a particularly wise choice, but he could not be persuaded otherwise.

The journey to the Shire encompassed many months of travel. Through Mirkwood, he received an escort, far different from his last visit. He was accompanied by Legolas and Tauriel, sent by an irritated Thranduil, (or so Legolas told him, amusedly.) Any spiders which dared cross their path were dealt with easily, though when they arrived at the end of the forest's reach they all were weary and in dire want of a rest unbothered by shadows.

Legolas, he noted, looked hesitant, glancing to Tauriel before clearing his throat. Thorin raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to speak plainly. "This is where we must leave you," he began slowly. "But if it would be possible, we would ask you to give Master Baggins our regards. For, we have not heard from him in almost a year."

Thorin, against his will, felt a spike of terror, his body going rigid even as he attempted to hide it. It would never due to show weakness in front of elves, even those elves whom he could stand to be around for more than a few hours. "Thranduil named him elf-friend, or so I am told. Why would your king halt communication with him?"

Legolas looked down, furrowing his brow, and Tauriel placed a hand on his arm. "We continue to send letters, disparate though they may be these days. He does not respond."

Thorin clenched his jaw and nodded jerkily. "When I meet with him, I shall tell him you send word."

Both elves nodded but their troubled, worried looks did nothing to quell the uneasy sense of foreboding in Thorin's gut.

 

* * *

 

He did not stop at Beorn's Carrock—he knew the shifter was only grudgingly tolerant of dwarrows and didn't wish to push his luck.

The trek through the Misty Mountains was, thankfully, free of Orc packs. While Thorin enjoyed the brief respite, the unnerving silence of the long nights made him anxious. He knew the mountains were forsaken, dangerous and home to many a dark creature.

He yearned for _his_ mountain, but also for sparkling green eyes and fine auburn hair. Thorin wanted to hear Bilbo's laugh, freely given, carried on the wind, the sound finer than anything his harp's strings could produce.

 

* * *

 

His stop in Rivendell was quick, for he was so close, and Elrond's words urged him on again.

"I hear... troubling things from the Shire, Thorin Oakenshield. There is something stirring on the wind. A darkness from Dol Guldor... from the west..."

Thorin refused to stay even a night, pausing only to eat properly and gather supplies. Elrond had no complaints of his haste, nor his lack of politeness He merely stared, often and long, a pensive frown marring his features.

"Be wary," the elf said somberly from behind, as Thorin packed for his departure.

Looking up, Thorin furrowed his brow in question. "I have no true knowledge of what lies ahead," Elrond continued, gaze unfocused as he looked across the horizon. "Only a distant shadow."

Thorin stared, hands stilling.

"Shadows," the elf lord murmured, almost inaudibly, before blinking and turning to leave without another word. 

 

* * *

 

The Shire was as he remembered it. He thanked the Valar, for with his fears he had half believed Bilbo's home to be fallen in shadow. He knew he would never find Bag End before sunset, given that he didn't even have a map of the Shire this time around. He stopped a hobbit walking down the lane and asked him if he knew Bilbo and where he would be. "Bilbo? Bilbo... oh, you..."

The hobbit scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "You can't mean Mad Baggins, can you?" he said, squinting at Thorin as if he had asked something particularly stupid.

Thorin winced at the name, before scowling and growling, "if you cannot tell me where Bilbo Baggins is, you are useless to me."

Satisfied at leaving the hobbit quaking in the face of his glare, he turned around, taking long strides. He could find Bilbo on his own. Probably. The hobbit he left behind was silent for a few moments, until he shouted after him, "Bilbo Baggins hasn't been seen at Bag End, nor the Shire, in a very long time!"

Thorin halted in his tracks, heart pounding wildly and eyes widening. Whirling around, he roared, "what do you mean?"

The hobbit looked like he was regretting his outburst as Thorin stalked toward him, the dwarf's eyes alight with fury and barely contained panic. Grabbing the poor creature by his collar, he hauled him close and added, "speak quickly, for I find my patience running thin."

The hobbit squeaked and squirmed in his grasp. "I just—no one knows where he's g-gone! He was always a strange one, from w-what I recall, and then he ran off, talking about adventures and he came back a while later and refused to speak to anyone about what'd happened! He became terribly unsociable—barely came out o' his home! One day, without a word, he left, a-again, and he hasn't been back! That place—no one even goes near it no more—there's something wrong with it now, ever since he left for the last time. It's like it's... sick. ...Like 'e was sick. Different."

_Sick. As if a disease lies upon it._

Giving his head a hard shake, Thorin clenched his jaw and let go of the hobbit's shirt, who took the opportunity to scurry away as fast as his legs could take him. Thorin stood staring at the ground, mind racing and heart pounding. Where else would he be? This was Bilbo's home... What had happened to his hobbit?

Thorin found he had begun to walk, further into the small village, and he immediately broke into a run. _I must find him._

He frantically called to mind the journey he had taken to Bilbo's home before, the night the company was formed, what seemed like ages, an eternity, ago. Shockingly, or perhaps utterly unsurprisingly, he remembered. He remembered each wrong turn, each frustrated grumble that had fallen from his lips. He remembered first looking upon Bag End and ignoring the ache in his chest at the thought of his home in the clutches of a foul beast.

Thorin ran as if Smaug himself was behind.

With a gasp, he turned a sharp corner and saw it, though not as he remembered it. It was dark. There were no sounds from inside, no hobbit form in the window, nor on the porch puffing on a pipe. The garden had all but decayed entirely. It felt as though all the blood in Thorin's veins turned to ice when he realized that nothing was growing.

Nothing lived.

Breath caught in his throat, he ran to the door and pounded on it with his fist, once, twice, three times. It rattled against its hinges, the sounded echoing in Thorin's ears. Shaking his head, eyes wide, he continued to slam his hand against the wood. Heart in his throat, he called, "Bilbo! Bilbo, please, please, open the door! I'm sorry—I was wrong, I was a fool and a coward and I know I have no right at all to your forgiveness but—please, I must see you again, hear your voice, at least once more—"

Thorin cut off as the door swung inward against his palm, so flooded by relief and anxiety that the propensity for speech escaped him. Bilbo looked the same as he had, a bit more worn around the edges but just as beautiful, just as untouchable. He wore an unreadable expression, head tilting smoothly, curls falling softly over his right shoulder like water. Thorin opened and closed his mouth, but no sound escaped. Bilbo's lip curled, something like a smile that wasn't quite like the ones Thorin recalled. It was smaller and didn't seem to be born of happiness. Something of it was wrong. Thorin swallowed hard as Bilbo gazed at his face, eyes roaming, looking... curious more than anything. "So," Bilbo murmured, face neutral, "the King Under the Mountain has returned."

Thorin nodded slowly, finally finding his voice. "I... I needed to see you again. To tell you... I have made a grievous mistake."

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. "Have you?"

Thorin stepped forward and said, emphatically, "yes. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. I have wronged you, let you go, treated you horribly and I wish to make amends, though I am utterly undeserving of any form of acceptance or kindness you might show me."

Both of Bilbo's eyebrows skyrocketed and he seemed to assess Thorin's expression once more. Thorin shifted as Bilbo remained silent, simply staring with an open curiosity. After many moments, Bilbo blinked and stepped back, holding the door open. "Won't you come in, my king?"

Thorin ached to hear his name instead of a title, but he held his tongue, cautious and silently petrified he was only imagining this, that Bilbo wasn't really there. That Thorin would feel mind-numbingly alone for the rest of his long rule.

Thorin searched his features warily and, finding polite sincerity, he stepped in after and closed the door behind him. Bag End seemed dustier, darker, and more empty than he knew it to be. Thorin eyed Bilbo worriedly, meeting his cool gaze with a furrowed brow. "I... I heard that you ... have been away?"

Bilbo blinked again, shifting slightly, then going unnaturally still, that small, strange smile never leaving his face. "Yes."

Thorin waited for him to continue but he remained quiet, simply watching Thorin with bright green eyes. Thorin took a step forward. "Where? ...Why?"

At that Bilbo turned around and walked fluidly away, one hand tracing the line of the walls, feet making no sound. "Things to do," he replied, voice carrying, an almost amused lilt to his words. "Preparations to be made."

Thorin, helpless to do anything else, followed, eyes boring into Bilbo's back in confusion and some semblance of growing dread he didn't know what to do with. "What?"

Bilbo's not-smile grew slightly wider as he glanced back, so fast Thorin wasn't even sure he really saw it, and he waved a hand, saying loftily, "oh, nothing you have to fret about."

"But—"

"Tea?" Bilbo interjected, barely missing a beat as he twisted around, eyes bright with... something.

Thorin considered refusing—considered a lot of things. He wanted to take Bilbo in his arms and never let go again, never make another foolish, prideful mistake. He wanted to convince Bilbo to come with him, to Erebor, and leave the ignorant occupants of the Shire who were blind to the jewel in front of him. He wanted Bilbo, all of him, any of him, by his side, for as long as he lived. Instead, he pushed down what he wanted and said, "tea. Yes. Of course."

Following Bilbo, (always following, always, always) he took a moment to take in his surroundings. Logically, it should have been the first thing he did, a warrior's instinct, but he found his gaze was drawn to Bilbo the instant he saw him, after three long years, small and strong and beautiful. The room, the kitchen, they entered looked uncluttered, the impeccable neatness somehow putting Thorin on edge. He frowned slightly, not entirely certain what was so...off about the room. Bilbo reached up to pull a teapot from a cabinet, silent as he did so. Thorin eyed his dining room table, remembering it full, every chair filled with a member of the company, laughing and singing. It was, of course, empty and Thorin sank into a chair, stomach twisting into knots.

It was his fault Bilbo was alone. His fault—he made him leave, named him traitor, but he was wrong, wrong, so wrong—

_All he felt was a red, blinding fury. He could feel the hobbit's whimpers under his hands, his rapid pulse thrumming against his fingertips as he was dangled over open air, but what he truly felt was an anger more overwhelming than anything he had ever experienced, so intense it sang in his very blood. "...Thorin," he heard him mumble, choked off, fearful._

_But the face he saw, pale with fright, slowly turning blue—it was not one he recognized. He saw a traitor, a betrayer, who dared to take what was his. His gold. His treasure. His._

_Mine._

Bilbo's hand in front of his face, holding a small cup, made him startle, sit up straighter and clear his throat. "Thank you," he said, taking the cup gently from his fingers, selfishly letting his own linger over Bilbo's skin for a second longer.

Something glinted in Bilbo's eye, something Thorin couldn't identify, before the hobbit stepped back, that strange blank expression still plastered across his skin, his delicate features. For want of something to do, something to say, he raised the cup to his lips and took a sip, all too aware of Bilbo's eyes tracking his movements.

The taste was peculiar, sharp, almost metallic in the back of his throat. He'd never been a fan of tea. He frowned into the cup, reminding himself that he had sought Bilbo out for a purpose, a desperate hope. Placing it firmly back onto the saucer, he met Bilbo's eyes and said, "I have come because I wish for you to return to Erebor. With me. I...I believe it could be a home to you. The company, we all, miss you. I... We miss you. And I know... I know I have done nothing, nothing at all in my life to deserve you, but I... am a selfish dwarf and I would like the most wonderful, beautiful... creature I have ever encountered to be near me for as long as I might live."

Thorin, so worried that his words would be discarded, rejected, did not realize that his speech had become slightly stilted, his breath suddenly short, because all that mattered was Bilbo, then and forever.

Bilbo's expression flashed for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening and teeth ghosting over his lip for a moment before reverting back to its impassive state. "Fascinating," he said, voice dry as bone.

Thorin felt his heart sink and he stared, sightless, into the design of the china, and said, "I understand why you would... would not but I—I ask that you... consider..."

Thorin's tongue felt heavy, in his mouth, he had the niggling sense to know that something was very wrong, but he needed Bilbo to understand, needed to tell him— "Please... Bilbo, I... ask because I..."

Thorin trailed off, squinting as his vision had begun to blur, his thoughts scattered. "I... I?" he mumbled, gripping the table as a sudden bout of nausea hit him like a slap to the face.

In his confusion, as his stomach rolled, he felt Bilbo's hands touch his cheeks and saw his face move down, level with his. Bilbo's thumbs moved across his cheekbones, brushing with an almost reverent touch. Thorin stared up at him, from his own slumped position, tried to speak, but was met with a jumble of incoherent syllables. "Shhhh," Bilbo tutted softly, placing a finger against Thorin's lips.

It was terrifying, the abrupt, utter lack of control Thorin had over what happened around him. Thorin felt as if he was outside of his own body, suddenly unable to move, or feel, anything. Bilbo drew Thorin's face close to his and placed a kiss on Thorin's lips, light and lingering. Thorin wasn't entirely certain if, had he been able to move, he would have deepened it or pushed Bilbo away. His eyelids grew heavy and Bilbo's face came in and out of focus. Bilbo's smile was wide now, all teeth and something almost feral. "Sleep, King Under the Mountain," he whispered, voice steady, soothing.

Thorin fought to keep his eyes from closing, fought the swell of darkness dragging him from consciousness. But this was an enemy he couldn't fight, not with swords or brute strength. "Sleep," Bilbo whispered again, and Thorin was helpless to follow the command.

 

* * *

 

_It was the smile. He was sure of it. With every pull of his lips, he became more enchanted. Because he—he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life than him when he smiled, bright and unburdened. When he caught a glimpse of it, thoughts of ash and dragonfire left his mind, because there in front of him was something the gold in Erebor could not buy—could not hope to match. What he wouldn't give to be on the receiving end of that smile—once more just, just once—_

 

* * *

 

When Thorin awoke it was a struggle just to open his eyes, let alone get his bearings. He could tell he was lying on something soft, comfortable. _A bed_ , his addled mind supplied. His second immediate thought was one of panic, that what he felt wasn't real, that he was dead and left Bilbo alone again. He then considered how ridiculous it was that he was worried for _Bilbo_ , after the hobbit had done this to him. And what exactly was this? Each breath was like sludge in his chest—it felt like something was pressing down on him, grounding him. He tried to turn his head, tried to shift, but even that small movement was beyond him. The most he managed was sluggishly opening his eyes. Thorin inhaled sharply, a twinge of pain in his lungs as he saw impassive green eyes staring back at him. He coughed, groaning when it rattled his aching ribs. At least he knew why it was difficult to take a breath—Bilbo was straddling his midsection, his hands positioned on either side of Thorin's head.

Thorin tried to speak, finding his voice was a ragged whisper, so quiet it was almost inaudible, "Bilbo... what...?"

He urged his body to sit up—to do anything—but all he managed was a pitiful shift of his head. Bilbo straightened and tilted his head. "It's no use fighting it. You'll only become more and more breathless. In some cases asphyxiation is almost inevitable. Most don't understand how delicate an art paralysis is—requires knowledge and natural skill," Bilbo said flatly, fingers running across Thorin's face, each touch barely there. "It takes a steady hand to get the dosage right. Precise measurements in order to avoid nightshade's more... fatal tendencies. Now, implementing enough for the victim to feel _pain_... that is another challenge altogether."

The hobbit above him huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. "His mother was named Belladonna—did you know? Seems suitably ironic."

A glint of something caught his gaze as Bilbo shifted and his eyes flickered to Bilbo's hand. On his finger was a golden ring, the one Bilbo had always been fiddling with on their journey. As Thorin studied it, his eyes began to water and burn, but he could not look away. His mind filled with the song of gold, a low hum and a nearly imperceptible whisper. The skin underneath was a dark black, reaching and twisting up his arm like pulsating vines. The darkness—it contorted beneath his flesh—it was  _inside_.

And it _moved._

Thorin felt the icy dredges of fear creep up his spine. Whoever this was, whatever it was, they were not Bilbo. Thorin cursed himself for being so blind, for not questioning this Bilbo's behavior. He should have known he—it—was not the hobbit he had grown to love. "What have you done with Bilbo Baggins," he rasped, dragging his gaze away from cold metal, glaring into (familiar) unfamiliar eyes.

The hobbit—creature, _thing_ , not his, not his _One_ —glanced up sharply, as if he had forgotten Thorin had awoke, before raising a cool eyebrow. Leaning down, he nosed Thorin's collarbone and licked a stripe to the line of his jaw, nipping at his skin. Thorin would have shuddered if he could. Thorin closed his eyes as he whispered, breathy, into his ear, "Bilbo Baggins doesn't exist."

With that, he leaned back, looking unimpressed when Thorin's eyes widened in a brief, terrible moment where he swore his heart stopped beating in his chest. "He is not dead," Thorin grit out, trying to put enough force in his feeble voice to convince himself as well.

"We never said he was dead," he replied, the minute tightening of his mouth the only sign of emotion. "Nothing you do, or say, can change the fact that Bilbo Baggins, as he once was, as you knew him, does not exist—not _singularly_ , at any rate."

Thorin made to respond, to argue, before the meaning of the words clicked and a new kind of dread, a worse kind, filtered in. "We?"

"Yes."

"...Bilbo?"

Bilbo's smile was slow to unfold, a lazy crawl on his face, reminding Thorin of a large, predatory cat he had seen lounging in the sun in Dale when he was barely of age. "Correct. And also," he intoned, reclining back slightly, "incorrect."

"You see, on the one," he continued, "we are Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna, companion to the Dwarven _heroes_ who reclaimed the Lonely Mountain from the clutches of a fearsome fire drake in a great, convenient mess of glory, and..."

Bilbo's hand drifted to Thorin's throat and he squeezed lightly, his face coming down an inch from Thorin's own, and Thorin could see such _malice_ in his features that all the air left his lungs in one shaky breath. Bilbo pressed down on his windpipe, hard enough that he saw stars for a moment, as he whispered against his lips, "and... the would-be consort to the King Under the Mountain."

Thorin couldn't breathe, couldn't think, his vision tunneling, he only saw Bilbo, only ever Bilbo but he wasn't _Bilbo_ , not _his_ , not really, and he couldn't breathe, he needed air, needed _air_ —

The pressure on his throat disappeared, after what seemed like a lifetime, and Thorin heaved great breaths against Bilbo's dead weight like he was starving for it. He barely had time to process the hobbit's words before he spoke again, voice back to the strange, unnatural monotone. "On the other hand however," he said, leaning to the right, "we are something else _entirely_. Though, granted, there's not much left of our dear hobbit now. Tell me, oh Stone-King, what is it you know of the rings of power?"

Desperately Thorin searched Bilbo's face for something familiar. A twitch, a look, anything. Bilbo was never supposed to be so still. "Bilbo," he croaked, "my heart, please, I know you live still—"

Bilbo's fist came down hard onto Thorin's ribs, with a terrifying strength. Thorin cried out hoarsely, pain like lightning lacing through his body as his ears picked up the sickening crunch of bone. He couldn't move to cradle the agony in his side, could only lay still against his will as Bilbo's body pressed at his injuries without mercy. "I think," Bilbo hissed, pulling Thorin's hair so that their noses almost brushed, "it would be wise to answer when I have asked and be silent when I have not."

Thorin couldn't stop the hoarse scream that bubbled up, unbidden from his throat as Bilbo pushed purposefully against his side, bone grinding against bone, agony so acute his vision all but blacked out. "I'd forgotten how it feels," he heard Bilbo say, once the ringing in his ears faded, "to have form. To have _substance._ So many years rotting in that mountain with that moronic, insipid creature—and then..."

Bilbo turned a sharp stare onto Thorin's face. "Then our little burglar came along. And you. You came along as well."

Bilbo shifted so that he was further down on Thorin's body, finally allowing him to properly remember what air in his lungs _felt like_ , and Thorin was so grateful he could have cried in relief.

"And you—oh, but you are _fascinating_ , aren't you?" Bilbo said, eyes raking over Thorin's face and pale fingers ghosting over his lips. "Most dwarrows I've found to be particularly stupid creatures, but you..."

"Give him back to me."

Bilbo's smile was a fast, sharp thing, a glimpse of white and then gone, as if it had never been there at all. "Perhaps not entirely above stupidity."

His grip became sharp as blunt nails dug into his skin and Bilbo's face twisted into something unrecognizable. His eyes, Bilbo's eyes, darkened, darkened so that Thorin was certain it was not a trick of the light or some heinous hallucination. Shadows pulled at his once delicate features and his face changed for it, turned tired and dark and ancient and ageless. "Do you see now, oh Dwarf King," he hissed, voice echoing unnaturally in the dim bedroom, breath sweet like poison against Thorin's lips. "There is nothing to return—nothing that you would want. Nothing you _deserve_."

And Thorin closed his eyes, tightly, because if he didn't see it perhaps it would not be true. Because this was his fault and his thoughts rang accusingly in his head, _your fault, you did this, it's your fault._

And he knew, then, that he had to fix it.

"Do you know why I came?"

Bilbo became very still above him and a faint, but noticeable look of surprise tinged his tainted features. The fingertips digging into the sides of his head retreated and Thorin barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before a hand gripped his jaw, bruising and crushing, pulling his head up at a painful angle. "Oh, I know, and he does as well," Bilbo whispered against his neck, teeth scraping at overheated skin. "You came to grovel—to beg—as if we were weak and would forgive you. Did the guilt keep you up in the hours of the night? Did the memory of your hands at my throat make you ill? Why would I save you from the dredges of hate in your mind? You are more monster than we could ever be."

"You're wrong," Thorin breathed through clenched teeth, aching to lean into the now gentle touch of Bilbo's fingers at his chest and to lurch away from it.

But the laugh that he received in reply only served as a painful reminder that the fingers tracing strange designs into his flesh with a hungry stare were not that of Bilbo Baggins.

_Not yet. You can bring him back._

"Bilbo—" he began, voice as rough as metal scraping against ancient earth, but Bilbo's hand flew to his mouth and pressed two cold fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"No, no, now it's our turn," he drawled, teeth scraping against his lower lip. "You see, I could have killed you hours ago. But instead, I've been courteous. I've been fair. Would you like to know why, Stone-King?"

Thorin didn't, not really, because the only thing he wanted was his Bilbo back, alive and whole and _untainted_ , because someone so pure and good should never have been subjected to such darkness—

"Yes," Thorin said, through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

Smiling, wide and _wrong_ , Bilbo leaned down until his lips brushed Thorin's ear. "You could come with me," he whispered, voice suddenly as Thorin remembered it, full and warm like a summer breeze and it _threw_ him, left his mind spinning with memories of golden laughter and _life_ , and he couldn't fully comprehend the words until—

"We could be unforgettable, you and I," Bilbo said, breathy and light, and he was so close that Thorin could smell him, a sweet scent like honey that was so achingly familiar it made him want to weep.

If he closed his eyes, Thorin could almost believe everything was perfect, that everything was right and Bilbo was his and he was Bilbo's. But the words sunk in and Thorin remembered that Bilbo would never offer his companionship. Not to him. Thorin was well acquainted with the reality of burnt bridges and hopeless dreams. He had spent his entire life in pursuit of something that was already lost but wasn't able to realize and then, and then he was _there_ grasping at straws and fighting for a shade of a memory and unable to see that what— _who_ —he craved, needed, and _could have had_ was clawing at his hands and fighting for breath beneath his fingers. Even he could see the irony in that.

Bilbo's fingers caressing the side of his face brought him back, renewed his focus on those deceiving eyes, and Thorin suddenly felt unparalleled hatred for whatever it was that had taken Bilbo Baggins and made him unrecognizable. He opened his mouth, made to respond, and likely something biting and harsh would have exited his lips and this heinous version of Bilbo Baggins would have lost his patience with a cold finality—but in his anger... He felt it.

His leg... It shifted, ever so slightly, barely movement at all and yet...

He _felt_ it.

"And if I said yes?" Thorin asked through clenched teeth, trying to stall, and oh, his heart seized when he saw a spark in those dead eyes, something he knew, something he _recognize_ _d_ , "What would you do then?"

Bilbo's gaze became sharp, searching. Thorin fought to keep his expression impassive. Bilbo exhaled loudly, a sharp, piercing sound in the sudden quiet. There was something utterly disconcerting in Bilbo's stare, too wide eyes shockingly empty once more and face incredibly composed. "What would I... do?" Bilbo repeated, his tone far enough from blankness that it was almost incredulous.

"I would give you the world," he breathed and something like panic stuck in Thorin's throat.

Bilbo's hands ghosted across his sides, touches feather-light, and an overwhelming warmth enveloped him, lessening the ache of each breath. With wide eyes, he watched as Bilbo ripped his tunic down the front as if it were old parchment. Fingers traced the outlines of broken ribs and Thorin inhaled sharply, expecting pain, but instead he watched as bone knit itself together under his skin. 

He shifted, chest heaving.

He stopped. 

Shifted.

Stopped.

Disbelievingly, he made to sit up, movements jerky and uncoordinated, and slowly lifted his gaze to meet Bilbo's. A smile spread on Bilbo's face, one with too many teeth and jagged edges.

"We," Bilbo whispered, a breath away from Thorin's mouth, eyes boring into his, "would have Middle Earth, to do with what we wished."

Thorin swallowed and he saw Bilbo track the motion, his face growing paler and shadows pulling darker. "We," Bilbo murmured, eyes on Thorin's throat and voice growing raspier, lower, and something newly terrifying altogether, "could topple the gods and bring them to their  _knees._ "

Thorin's throat closed up as he tried to swallow—tried to relieve the sick, hollow pull of dread in his stomach. "Because you see, _we_ ," he continued, "we could be better than _they_ ever were— _we_ will raze _kingdoms_  and civilization will _crumble_ in our wake.  _King Under the Mountain?  King of Arda_ they'll call you.  _Earthshaker._ I've _seen it."_

"No."

Thorin felt Bilbo go rigid. The silence that followed left Thorin's heart pounding. "No?" Bilbo intoned, voice cold.

Thorin held his breath, staring up into dead eyes and entirely certain it would be the last time he would see them. Thorin clenched a fist, glanced down at it for a split second, and without hesitation heaved it upward. He could fix this, he could _fix it_ , he just needed help, needed to get back—to Erebor—needed his nephews, Balin, Gandalf—

Bilbo, without blinking or looking away at all, caught his wrist in a bruising grip mere inches from his own face. Shockingly, he began to laugh. Quietly at first, then growing in volume until the oddly melodious sound bounced off the walls and danced in the air. Thorin froze as gold eyes met his own, hypnotic.

Enchanting.

Beautiful.

"Oh," Bilbo murmured. "Darling."

Thorin hung onto the words, heard them reverberate in his core, his soul, his being. He felt as if he was falling, the sensation of weightlessness somehow pressing and freeing at once. Gold would be his comfort once again, he knew.

It had always felt right.

_Mine._

"I wasn't asking."

 

* * *

 

Fili paced across the Throne Room, systematically clenching his fists. Night had long since fallen over Erebor, the chamber was all but empty, and Fili didn't know what to do. "I should send someone... he should've been _back_ by now, Kili, I don't—"

Kili's hand settled on his shoulder. His brother was uncharacteristically somber as he said, "give him more time. Uncle... he can take care of himself."

Fili couldn't help but register the slight tremor in Kili's voice, the uncertainty. "I—It's been long enough. I should get... get Balin—"

"You need to  _rest_ , Fili. Thorin'll turn up. He always does," Kili interjected, with a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

 _But you're tired too_ , Fili wanted to say.  _I miss the way you don't laugh as much as you used to. I wish the worry wasn't_ crushing _you. I wish Uncle would fix this. Fix everything._

 "You're right, as usual," he said instead, and oh, it was worth it for the soft look in Kili's eyes. 

As Kili opened his mouth to respond, he caught a flicker of color in the corner of his eye. He thought he saw... Looking past his brother, his eyes widened as he took in the sight of two very familiar figures. "Bilbo?" 

Kili whirled around and stepped back in shock. They looked the same. The same as when Fili had last seen them but also...

There was something unsettling about their eyes.

Bilbo did not acknowledge that Fili had called his name, nor did Thorin. They stood, hand in hand, Bilbo glancing around the room with blank, impassive features and Thorin... his gaze never left Bilbo's face. "Thorin?" Kili called, voice weak, and warily touched Fili's hand. 

Fili shifted closer to his brother. He seemed to sense something wasn't right as well. Unlike Bilbo, Thorin did react to his name, turning to look at them with something like mild interest playing on his face. Fili swallowed hard. "Kili..." he murmured, voice low, "get behind me."

It was a testament to how unsettled Kili was that he did so without question, his breath shaky on the back of Fili's neck. Thorin tilted his head, blinked, and looked again to Bilbo. "Are they needed?" Fili heard Thorin ask, saw the words come from his mouth, but it didn't _sound_ like him. 

Bilbo finally looked at them and Fili instinctively took a step back, placing a hand on his brother's chest. His eyes were the color of the treasure that had almost destroyed his family. "No," Bilbo said, tilting his head back and regarding them with an unimpressed stare. "No, not really. You've no need for heirs. Not now." 

Bilbo chuckled and Fili went rigid, feeling Kili grip his arm tightly. Thorin smiled.

Fili's blood ran cold.

"Of course, Ghivashel."

 

* * *

 

They stood on the ramparts overlooking the stone outcroppings below. Thorin wound his hand in Bilbo's hair, playing with the strands absently. He saw Bilbo's lips twitch and a grin pulled at his own. 

"Ours," he murmured, watching as Bilbo nodded, almost lazily.

_Mine._

 


End file.
